Chapter 7

LYRA

We spent the entire morning training…

Literally from five to twelve.

I’ve never trained this much in my entire damn life, not even the week my mother tried to punish me for sneaking out to a nightclub at sixteen.

By the time noon hits, every muscle in my body is trembling like a newborn deer on ice. 

Our head trainer enters with a clipboard in hand. She plants herself at the front of the hall, blows a whistle so sharp my soul flinches, and calls for attention. Silence drops over the hall the second the head trainer opens her mouth.

No shouting. No theatrics. Just that quiet, heavy kind of silence that makes your spine straighten, whether you want it to or not.

She starts by reminding us of the rules. Not that anyone needs reminding. It was all explained this morning. For the next three weeks, we’re being assessed constantly. Every exercise. Every drill. Every spar. Every mistake. Basically, everything we do is being watched, logged, and judged. And every day, we will be ranked.

Fun.

The point of the first three weeks isn’t to teach us the basics. We’re not pups. We all come from packs; we all know how to fight, shift, and survive. This phase is about testing our physical limits, breaking bad habits—like losing your damn mind and turning into a rage monster during sparring, hypothetically speaking—and figuring out who actually has the potential to go further.

At the end of the three weeks comes what they call elimination. Some huge physical test. But where we are on the list of ranks this first three weeks will be crucial too, or so we are told.

There are twenty of us. Ten don’t make it through.

Those ten get sent home with a polite but very firm 'you’re not ready yet', along with individualised feedback and a detailed list of what they need to work on back in their own packs.

The other ten get upgraded. No more barracks. We move into apartments. We stop training only with cadets and start sparring with actual warriors—matched according to our strengths and abilities, not just thrown into a group and told to survive.

After that, it’s another three weeks. Harder. Sharper. And way more personal.

And at the end of those three weeks, there’s a final advanced assessment. Then they send us home—not as failures or successes, but with something far more dangerous: clarity.

A full breakdown of our strengths and weaknesses. A personalised training program. And recommendations sent directly to our Alphas about where we’d be best suited within our packs.

For some girls, like Maria—who already has her future carved out in stone—it’s pointless. Beta female. Always has been. Always will be. Rank doesn’t even matter.

But for me? Hell. If they can figure out where I actually belong… I might just kiss someone’s feet.

“All right cadets, rankings for the day.” Her voice booms through the hall.

Great.

Time to publicly humiliate ourselves.

She begins.

“Rank One: Nessa Gordon.”

Of course.

The applause is deafening. Chest bumps. High fives. Smug grins. Honestly, I’m shocked they aren’t howling in triumph.

“Rank Two: Tabitha Ramsey.”

One of Nessa’s group.

“Rank Three: Mariah Keaton.”

Another one.

Then—

“Rank Four: Maria López.”Of course.

The ranks continue.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Not me.

My stomach sinks like a stone.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Still not me.

What.

The actual.

Hell.

I kept up with everything.

I ran in HUMAN FORM and still stayed with the pack.

I didn’t gas out.

I didn’t quit.

There is only one explanation.

That stupid Alpha told them to get rid of me from day one.

He absolutely would. That petty, controlling, red-wine-scented bastard.

“Rank Fourteen: Lyra Weston.”

I swear the whole hall turns to look at me.

Even the walls judge me.

Fourteen?

FOUR-FUCKING-TEEN?

I want to hurl a weight at someone’s head.

When they finish the list, the head trainer gives each of us a slip of paper — our performance profile.

I unfold mine and it reads like a military report written by someone who resents me personally.

Performance Assessment – Cadet Lyra Weston

Rank: 14 / 20

Primary Strengths:

– Exceptional speed and cardiovascular endurance

– High physical resilience; rapid recovery rates

– Strong spatial awareness during movement drills

Primary Weaknesses:

1. Noncompliance with Superior Instruction

Recorded incident: Refusal to shift during mandatory pack-run exercise.

Cadet demonstrated deliberate disobedience, compromising unit cohesion.

Insufficient Team Integration

Cadet displayed minimal engagement with fellow trainees.

Limited verbal coordination and lack of cooperative initiative observed during strength and conditioning rotations.

I stare at the paper.

Then at the trainer.

Then at the ceiling.

You’ve got to be shitting me.

The moment the head trainer announces that we have the rest of the day to ourselves, I’m out of there. 

‘Apartment number, now.’ 

‘3F, babe.’ Talia’s voice comes through the mental link less than a second later, and I practically sprint.

When I walk in and see the bottles of wine lined up on the counter like a sacred altar, I nearly cry.

“Thank fuck,” I whisper, collapsing onto her couch.

Sunlight cuts through the tall windows, illuminating the stacks of books, the little succulents lined up along the sill, and the faint scent of jasmine from her diffuser. Half-past twelve and wine never felt so necessary.

Talia doesn’t even blink. She just hands me a glass, already full.

“I figured you’d need it.”

I take a long, grateful sip. The wine tastes sharp and sweet, a promise of calm in the chaos. I take a slow breath, letting it wash some of the day’s grit away. 

“You’re an angel. A violent, stabby angel with killer shoes.”

She smirks, pouring herself a glass as well.

There is nothing—nothing—like a girlfriend who will drink with you when you really need it, regardless of whether the clock says “wine o’clock” or “should you be in therapy instead?” Goddess bless Talia’s soul.

“How was day one?”

I groan. 

“My legs are plotting mutiny. I nearly punched someone during push-ups. The mud on the obstacle course ruined my favourite gym top. And the showers are haunted by gossip.”

“Ah.” She swirls her wine. “So… a normal day among she-wolves.”

Then I hand her my Eclipse Pack report card. 

“Well damn.” She shrugs and drops it on the coffee table before leaning back on the couch. 

“Well damn? That’s all you have to say?” I gape at her. 

“Well what do you want me to say, Ly?” She smirks. “It’s no secret that you don’t exactly play well with others.” She takes a sip. “And no one has ever seen you shift.” She looks at me pointedly.

“Mom and Dad have seen it.” I clear my throat, and we both take a big, possibly irresponsible gulp at the mention of my father. 

Nearly two years later, and just the thought of him still hurts. 

I slump further into her couch, cradling my glass like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. After a final big gulp, I raise it slightly toward the door.

“Anyway,” I clear my throat, “Zane is probably behind this shit. He obviously wants me out.”

Talia actually bursts out laughing, her entire chest shaking, and she needs to put her wine glass down to prevent herself from spilling. 

I put my empty glass down and cross my arms.

“What? It’s not impossible.” I all but growl. 

Talia brushes an imaginary tear away from her eye.

“Girl, I love you and all. But we both know they immediately caught your two biggest weaknesses. I’m pretty sure the Alpha doesn’t even know about it.”

I refill my glass while Talia takes another sip of her wine. 

“If you weren’t the only person I actually liked here, I would call you a bitch.”

She lets out another amused laugh and raises her glass in a ‘cheers’ movement, which I reluctantly return. 

I take a sip before asking, “What do you know about Nessa Gordon?”

Talia tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to decide if this is about gossip, politics, or potential homicide.

Then she smirks. 

“New friend?”

I roll my eyes. 

“No. She’s just… a little too interested in me.”

“Well, your outfits do scream sex appeal,” she says with a wink.

“Not that kind of interested,” I grind out. “She keeps watching me. Like she's trying to figure out if I'm hiding some huge secret.”

Talia’s brows knit slightly. 

“Gordon…” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” She shrugs. “Want me to dig?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, swirling my wine. “I think I need to know more.”

“Done.” She fluffs the cushion behind her and lies back again. “So… who else did you meet that I should be jealous of?”

I sigh, 

“How about Maria López?”

“The Moonridge Beta’s daughter?”

“Mmhm.” Naturally, Talia knows every pack’s Alphas, Lunas, and Betas. She, herself, is a political figure after all. 

“And?”

“She’s… lovely,” I say flatly. “Sweet. Perky. Thinks Zane might be her fated mate.”

Talia raises a brow. 

“Seriously?”

“Dead serious. Apparently, he walked her to the barracks. Personally.”

Talia lets out a very unsophisticated snort. 

“Didn't the Alpha walk you too, though?”

“Yup,” I pop the last sound of the word and take another sip of my wine.

“You think he did it just to piss you off or because Alpha Alex threatened him to do it?” Talia winks at me. 

“Of course, I imagine my brother could easily force Zane Wynter to do something against his will,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.

She smiles wickedly.

“So your assumption is that he’s just a menace to you then?”

I glare at her.

“My assumption is that he is like an immovable object wrapped in muscle and misplaced authority.”

Talia bursts out laughing… again. Which does not help my frustration levels at all. 

“I don't think an Alpha can have misplaced authority, princess. And there's nothing wrong with a little muscle.” She grins into her wine glass.

I groan and take another big gulp. Against my will, my leg starts bouncing and Talia eyes it knowingly.

“Well, he still has way too much ego. The bastard is nothing special.”

Talia lifts her glass. “Mm hmm.”

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says innocently. “You just sound… passionate.”

I shoot her a glare. 

“I’m not passionate. I’m annoyed. There’s a difference.” 

“Of course,” she nods, far too agreeable. “You hate him.”

“I do!” I take a sip. “I mean, he’s insufferable. The grunting. The glaring. The superiority complex. Who walks like that anyway? Like the earth should be grateful he’s stepping on it.”

Talia just hums again, tilting her head like she’s watching a very amusing show. Meanwhile, I can't stop ranting, tapping my fingers against my glass. I should shut up. I should. But come on, I’m finally letting out some of the fucking frustration that has been building all day. No, all year. 

“He's always so calm… cold… stoic.”

Talia raises her brows. 

“Sounds like you’ve been paying very close attention.”

I blink. 

“I—It's impossible not to notice.”

“Mm.” Sip.

“Doesn’t mean I care.”

“So… you don’t think Maria could be it for him?”

I nearly get whiplash from how quickly she changed the topic.

“What, his mate?”

Talia shrugs. 

“Sure.”

“She’s sweet,” I say. “Pretty. Perfectly nice. She'll definitely worship the ground he walks on.”

“So she's perfect for him.” Talia smiles. 

“Hah”, I nearly choke on my wine. “That bastard does not need someone to boost his already too large ego.”

Talia leans back on the couch, wine in hand, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“You know,” she says, casual as anything, “for someone who doesn’t care about the Alpha, you sure have a lot of opinions about what he needs.”

I shoot her a look.

And refill my glass again.

***

ZANE

Five days, and the Weston princess is still here.

Worse, she’s moved from fourteenth on the rankings to eleventh.

Not enough to make the final ten…

But close.

Too close.

If she can climb three places in five days, where will she be in two more weeks? She’s doing well…far too bloody well. 

I had been certain she’d quit by day two. Perhaps three.

But she’s still here. Still training. Still pushing. 

I exhale slowly and stand up from the leather chair behind my desk in the pack headquarters. 

The office is as it should be. All sharp edges, clean lines, and not a single thing out of place. The black-and-steel shelves against the far walls are lined with neatly labelled files, each one perfectly straight. All the artwork is perfectly straight. My desk is spotless, not a speck of dust, not a stray pen.

No clutter. 

Walking across the room, I take a crystal glass from the minibar — one of the few indulgences in this otherwise Spartan fortress — and pour two fingers of Macallan neat.

Returning to my desk, I walk past the glass wall. Beyond the tinted windows, the training yard stretches under floodlights, and shadows of soldiers move in perfect formation. Even at night, even as the wind howls against the glass, they march. 

I watch the thunderstorm brewing in the distance beyond the forest. It will reach us soon enough. A storm outside. A storm inside.

How fitting.

Returning to my seat, I take a measured sip of my whiskey.

If I had it my way, Lyra Weston never would have stepped foot into my territory in the first place, but here she is, breathing my air, disrupting my order, forcing herself into the periphery of my attention no matter how strictly I police it.

My heart beats too fast in my chest, and I take deep breaths, cursing the organ. My knuckles whiten around the glass, and I loosen my grip before it cracks. 

Control. 

Always.

Father should have kept his. If he had, I would not be cleaning up the mess he left behind. But he lost his mind, just like all the Wynter Alphas before him. 

Father irrationally convinced he needed to attack the Weston family’s pack eighteen months ago. A fatal mistake. One Alexander Weston remedied with my father’s blood.

The brother of the irritatingly beautiful woman currently residing in my barracks.

By all logic, I should hate her.

I should hate all of them.

But regardless of personal history, I need the alliance with the Arcane-Oracle Pack intact. I cannot have a diplomatic breakdown. I certainly can not have a war on my hands. Not now. Not when they have two Alphas whose power is… inconvenient. 

Two Alphas ruling over one pack is unheard of.

But a female Alpha? It’s ridiculous. Pathetic.

Women are meant to be Lunas. To support the Alpha, take care of the pack as a mother should, and provide emotional support.

That is precisely why my pack needs no Luna. And never will.

Apparently, theirs need no Luna either. Or perhaps she acts as Luna but is only given the title of an Alpha? I don’t know.

And I hate not knowing. 

I take another sip of my whiskey, relishing the sharp taste in my mouth, the burn tracing down my throat.

It is common knowledge that a pack is as strong as its Alpha, and theirs are anything but weak. For some reason, that woman is legendary.

And from personal experience, I am fully aware of just how powerful that pack is. Especially with the witches also living behind those walls.

Still, their warriors fear a tiny she-wolf with certainly more bark than bite. Fearing Lyra Weston? 

Pitiful.

What disappoints me most is my own female training division. They clearly aren’t pushing hard enough if even the Weston princess can keep pace. Unless she’s been avoiding sessions. Which I would not put it past her. I wouldn’t put anything past her at this point.

But either way, the program needs reevaluation. Attendance. Ranking systems. Discipline.

Father left me a pack in shambles. I rebuilt it into something respected. Feared even. And I refuse to let cracks form now.

I take another sip, evaluating the situation.

Perhaps I need not handle the training issue myself; I will simply send one of my inferiors to step in. It is what they are for after all.

And gods know, I’ve seen more than enough of Lyra Weston these past days. Every evening, without fail, as I return to my home, she’s leaving her Beta’s apartment. Always in those infuriatingly short skirts or dresses, showing off that tattoo on her thigh. The tail of a rose curls just high enough to make a man imagine tearing fabric to see the rest.

My jaw clenches.

Because I would never.

I finish my whiskey in one swallow and pour another of precisely the same amount. Routine. Predictability. 

Things she clearly knows nothing about. She wears every damned feeling on her face. The anger. The annoyance. The longing. And the lust. Even when she tries to hide it as we pass, her eyes betray her. She has no discipline or restraint whatsoever.

How does someone live like that?

Without order? Without control?

They drill emotional regulation into you on day one of warrior training.

But then again, she is certainly not a warrior. She’s a sheltered princess. 

Still…I have to give her this much; she didn’t even flinch when I held her by her throat. And that memory bites harder than it should. I tell myself it’s because she needed discipline, not because I wanted to see what she would do next.

There’s fire in her. But fire can be snuffed.

What I can’t explain, what bothers me most about the whole incident, is how she held my gaze after she initially submitted. She lifted her eyes again, even with my aura pressing down on her. She should not have been able to. 

And months ago… she entered my Alpha power. She walked into it. Uninvited. 

It should not be possible.

The memory of it still grates, and it should worry me more than it does. But gods help me, part of me wants to see if she can do it again.

The other part wants to destroy whatever in me wants that.

Because Lyra Weston is the type of woman who could break a man. But there is no way on the goddess’s green earth that she could ever break me.